My Fears Relieved
by Hummingbird1759
Summary: After his brother jumped off of St. Bart's, Mycroft thought there was no hope for him... until he received an unexpected visitor. Sequel to "Evolution of Fear" and "A Sociopath's Fears", but can be read alone. Rated T for angst.
1. Quia Peccavi

_A/N: This story is a sequel to "A Sociopath's Fears" and "The Evolution of Fear" but you don't need to have read those stories to understand this one. As always, I don't own these characters, Moffat/Gatiss and Conan Doyle do. _

**Quia Peccavi**

**[For I Have Sinned]**

Mycroft Holmes is finishing up his twelfth hour at the office. That isn't unusual for him; he's always been a diligent worker who never cared for a personal life. However, the events of the past week have been extremely unusual: his younger brother committed suicide three days ago. A bachelor with no other siblings and his parents long deceased, Mycroft is truly alone in the world.

Most people would think that a man in his situation would take some time away from work, if nothing else to sort out his brother's affairs, but Mycroft has not changed his schedule one iota. His colleagues have gently inquired as to whether he feels he should be at work and Mycroft politely but firmly shuts down that line of conversation.

"Your concern is touching, but it is not helping us resolve this issue," he often says with his typical not-quite-a-smile.

Just before 8 PM, his assistant knocks on the door. "Sir?"

"Yes?"

"Sir, I just finished the reports on the situation in Honduras. Do you require anything else this evening?"

"No, Anthea, that shall be all. See you in the morning."

The young woman hesitates on her way out of the office. "Mr. Holmes… are you sure you don't need anything else? If you need some time away, I can take care of things."

Mycroft's face is professional, but his eyes give Anthea a thousand-yard stare and his words are forced. "While I have every confidence in your ability to handle any situation that may arise, I do _not_ need to be out of the office."

Anthea gazes at him sorrowfully. She thought that after all her years of working for him, she was the one person who could read Mycroft Holmes. For the last three days, she's looked at him and seen nothing and the lack of emotion is eerie, even for him. People are beginning to talk and she wonders how long it will be before a second Holmes falls.

"As you wish, sir. Good night."

After Anthea departs, Mycroft finishes up the report he's working on, then glances at his watch. He reluctantly gathers up his things and calls his car. Time to go home and try to get some rest while the memories assault him from all sides. Sherlock is always the last thing he sees before he falls asleep, but he never sees present-day Sherlock, always the ghosts of Sherlocks past. He sees three-year-old Sherlock with a spider bite, or school age Sherlock deducing the party guests with him, or twenty-two-year-old Sherlock returning from America. Sometimes he'll see teenage Sherlock, infuriated that everyone lied to him about Mummy. As awful as angry teenage Sherlock makes him feel, there's one other Sherlock that's positively unbearable: eight-year-old Sherlock resting on his shoulder one Christmas night.

_That night, Mycroft told his brother, "Even if no one else on Earth worries about you, I will."_

_"You will?"_

_"Always."_

Mycroft buries his face in his hands. _(Always, until I gambled with your life and lost.)_

* * *

In a posh neighbourhood a few miles away, a tall man hobbles down the streets, leaning on a woman for support. She's a foot shorter than he, which makes for awkward progress. A hooded jumper obscures the man's features. He can't run the risk of being noticed, and in this neighbourhood, the chances of discovery are great. Anyone in London would recognize Sherlock Holmes, the discredited detective who jumped off of St. Bart's three days ago. Residents of this neighbourhood might also recall Sherlock as the boy who used to play pirate in the tree house behind Holmes Manor. The woman wears no disguise; nobody recognizes her anywhere, and tonight, Molly Hooper is grateful to be unknown.

After several minutes of fumbling, they reach the side door. Sherlock studies the keypad of the alarm system for a moment while rummaging through his pockets. Molly grunts softly under his weight.

She asks, "Shouldn't we knock?"

Sherlock snorts and holds up his keys. "This is my house too. Besides, Mycroft won't have changed the security code yet – sentiment. He hasn't accepted that I'm dead."

Molly is about to remind him that he isn't dead. Then she remembers how ridiculous that sounds and keeps quiet.

Sherlock punches in the code to the alarm system and opens the door; as he predicted, the code and the locks are still the same. He chuckles under his breath. If anyone found out how important Mycroft actually is, he'd be a sitting duck for assassins. Luckily, his brother has found the best protection of all: convincing everyone that he isn't worth their notice. Sherlock opens the door and he and Molly stumble inside. They find themselves in a gloomy storage room that Sherlock notices is almost identical to when he was a child. When the boys played hide and go seek, this was one of his favourite places to hide. Later, he obtained materials for his experiments from this room. He suspects that some of the same cans and boxes that were present then are still here. _(Mycroft never could throw anything away.)_

The two make their way through the storage room to the darkened kitchen. Mycroft is, as always, at work_. (Of course. He barely took a day off after Mummy died; why should my death be any different?)_ Sherlock flips on the lights and indicates the direction of the living room. After more limping and grumbling, Molly eases him onto the couch. She sits in a stiff armchair by the fireplace and asks him what they should do now.

"Unless he's out of the country – and he won't be since he has to see to my estate and plan my funeral – Mycroft never stays out past nine. Early to rise and early to bed; he's very predictable. Could you make us some tea?"

Molly rolls her eyes. "Just remember I'm not Mrs. Hudson."


	2. Mea Maxima Culpa

**Mea Maxima Culpa**

**[Through My Most Grievous Fault]**

Mycroft gets out of his car at Holmes Manor and immediately notices that something is amiss. It's not the lights – he has them on a timer so that they'll always be on when he comes home – but something else. The grass next to the side driveway has been disturbed. Mycroft texts Anthea, tells her to increase her alertness level to 3, and creeps over to the side of the house. He smells something abnormal; someone who uses lily-scented shampoo has been by within the last twenty minutes. And is that formaldehyde? He's smelled this combination before - last Christmas, in fact. That was the day he and Sherlock identified what they thought was Irene Adler's body at the morgue. _(But it wasn't the body that smelt of lilies, it was the pathologist.)_

There's another familiar scent here, a mix of tobacco, tea, rosin, and blood. The scent sends a shiver up Mycroft's spine and he tries to forget the last time he smelled it. What on Earth is happening here? He carefully treads up the driveway to the side door and studies the alarm system keypad and the lock. To an untrained eye, they appear undisturbed, but he knows better. The keypad's recently been used, and since he's given the servants a week off – he wants to be alone right now – no one should have touched it. Whoever used the keypad most recently entered the code correctly on the first try.

_(An expert safecracker. Who somehow made a copy of the key without my knowledge. Who smokes, plays the violin, and drinks tea. And had an accomplice who enjoys the smell of lilies and does a great deal of dissection.)_ He refuses to allow himself to contemplate any other possibilities, such as the possibility of his baby brother having faked his death with the help of a certain forensic pathologist. Too much hope is a dangerous thing.

The diplomat walks in, flicking on the lights. Two faint sets of footprints lead through the dust on the floor and into the kitchen. He crouches for a closer look. One set belongs to a petite woman and the other to a man of slightly greater than average height. He can tell from the way the tracks weave that the man was injured and leaned on the woman for support. Mycroft gulps.

_(This is a hallucination. A very elaborate hallucination, brought on by grief and stress. This is not real.)_

When Mycroft opens the kitchen door, he hears voices in the living room. One of them is a woman who speaks softly and seems very nervous. The other is a man with a deep baritone. _(It's not him. I only wish it were him. It's a hallucination and nothing more and I am taking tomorrow off before I lose my mind completely.)_ The diplomat gently deposits his briefcase on the kitchen floor and drapes his coat over a chair. He hears a distinctive laugh coming from the living room and bites his tongue as if to wake himself from a dream. _(It's not him. Can't be him.)_

Mycroft walks swiftly into the living room. Keeping up the fantasy isn't good, he knows. Better to walk in, get the disappointment over as fast as possible. Later, he can berate himself for somehow hoping that Sherlock could still be…

…alive? Alive, and lying on the couch with a twisted ankle? He half expects Mummy to breeze in fussing over Sherlock's injuries and complaining about mud on the upholstery. Until this moment, Mycroft never knew what it meant to be undone. He holds onto the wall, wondering if he might actually faint.

Sherlock grins impishly and holds up his teacup. "Hello, brother dear. Care to join us?"

_(Deep breath. Don't let him see how much you care.)_ "Sherlock," he chokes.

"I'll fix you some tea," Molly murmurs as she dashes off to the kitchen.

Mycroft pulls a chair up next to the couch and sits facing his brother. "How?"

"Molly," Sherlock replies, nodding towards the kitchen. "She helped me procure a decoy body. My homeless network set up a distraction so that no one would see the switch."

"And why?"

The diplomat barely gets these words out. Sherlock will tell him that he faked his death because his career was ruined and he wanted to start anew as someone else, and it's all Mycroft's fault. He will say that he knew Mycroft would do anything to further his career, but he didn't think Mycroft would sell out his one remaining family member.

"Moriarty had snipers trained on John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. If I hadn't jumped, he'd have killed them."

Mycroft knew that in the days prior to Sherlock's "death", there had been a significant increase in the number of professional assassins in London. Since many of them were close to Baker Street, everyone assumed that Sherlock was their primary target, with John as a secondary. None of them had made a direct attempt on anyone's life yet, and as such, there was not enough evidence to arrest. Mycroft is more than a little embarrassed that his baby brother was one step ahead of him.

The older man begins, "So it wasn't…"

Sherlock hisses, "Don't flatter yourself!"

Mycroft purses his lips, hiding his relief. "Good. So what brings you here tonight?"

"Molly helped me die. I need you to reincarnate me."

"Reincarnate you? Dear brother, while I think it appropriate for you to wish to return to life as a worm, I'm afraid such a request can only be fulfilled by Merlin."

Sherlock ignores the taunt. "I need a new identity so that I can get out of Britain."

Mycroft nods. "To destroy the rest of Moriarty's men, I take it?"

"Yes."

"And I suppose you think you can simply jaunt off on a one-man crusade to dismantle one of the greatest criminal networks of our time?"

Sherlock huffs, "Alone protects me. You of all people should know that."

Mycroft rolls his eyes. "You did have to pick the most annoying way in which to take after Father."

"Well, you got his hairline and Mummy's metabolism. There had to be one negative trait left over for me," Sherlock says with a smirk.

Mycroft glowers at Sherlock and lets out a long exhale. "I assure you that you have much more than one negative trait. Regardless, I shall ensure that you leave Britain undetected, but I cannot send you out alone like Don Quixote fighting windmills. I have people who can assist you, and you shall allow them to do so, Sherlock, don't make that face at me!"

"He's right, Sherlock," comes a quiet voice from the kitchen. Both Holmeses turn to look at Molly. "Moriarty was a master of evil. He wouldn't have hired anyone with a conscience."

"And I'm a sociopath, so that makes me the perfect person to go after them!" Sherlock snaps.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. "Might I remind you that you, the so-called 'sociopath', just sacrificed yourself to save your friends?"

Rage flares in Sherlock's eyes. "I wouldn't have needed to if you had kept your bloody mouth shut!"

"Maybe I should go. My, er, cat needs me," Molly says softly.

Sherlock is about to object, but before he can speak, Mycroft tells Molly that he will escort her to her car. Mycroft believes in chivalry, and even if he didn't, he wants to ensure that Molly wasn't followed.

When they reach Molly's car, Mycroft takes her hand. "Doctor Hooper, I cannot thank you enough for what you have done. Sherlock and I have always had a difficult relationship, and I fear that my recent actions have added a new dimension to our troubles. However, my brother is the most important person in my life, and words cannot express how glad I am he is alive."

Molly blushes. It's been seven years since she graduated medical school but she still preens a bit when someone calls her "Doctor Hooper" – probably because so few people call her that. Out of gratitude for Mycroft's respect and concern for his emotional state, she wants to hug him, but she senses a hug would make him uncomfortable. Instead, she gently places her other hand on top of his.

"I saw how you were with him last Christmas at the morgue. You two were only acting like you don't care for each other."

Mycroft can't help but respect someone who notices everything but remains completely unnoticed. "Doctor Hooper, my brother and I have a great deal of work ahead of us. Might we trouble you for further assistance?"

"What do you need?"

"Much. Drive safely, Doctor Hooper."

"Thank you. And just Molly is fine." She blushes again. She never expected Sherlock's brother would be so polite.


	3. Miserere Mei

**Miserere Mei**

**[Have Mercy On Me]**

Back at Holmes Manor, Mycroft returns to his seat by the couch. Sherlock gives him a blistering stare and says nothing for a few minutes.

Mycroft frowns. "Sherlock, if you're trying to communicate with me telepathically, you are doing a rather poor job of it."

"I'm waiting for you to explain yourself, brother dear," Sherlock retorts. "Exactly why did you think you could trust Jim Moriarty, of all people? Or did you merely wish to have me out of your rapidly thinning hair permanently?"

Mycroft folds his arms. "I knew that I could not trust Moriarty. However, he gave me little choice; my superiors and I thought that if I did not acquiesce to his demands, he could have bankrupted the nation, or released a biological weapon, or started a war. It was either tell him everything I knew about you or allow him to deal Britain a blow from which it might never recover."

"So you chose me. How very patriotic of you," Sherlock spits.

"I think we can both agree that it is better to sacrifice one man than an entire nation." Mycroft said pointedly. "However, given your latest stunt, perhaps I would not be wrong in suggesting that you _would_ sacrifice yourself for Britain."

Sherlock seethes silently.

"You hate me, and frankly, I don't fault you. You've more than enough reason to do so. I should have consulted you-"

"But you didn't," Sherlock interrupts. "You've never trusted me with the truth, not even the truth about _Mummy_."

The last word feels like a snakebite to Mycroft. He gazes downward for a long moment as Sherlock glares back, the picture of defiance. Time seems to stand still while the older brother composes his thoughts. Finally, he breaks the silence, his voice barely above a whisper.

"When her cancer recurred, I knew Mummy would not recover. Father saw straight away that I had worked it out. He insisted that I not tell you. He said that it wasn't proper for a child to know such things, that telling you would cause you to lose hope. You were having so many difficulties already and he feared that if you knew Mummy was terminal, you might-"

Sherlock cocks his head as he interrupts. "Develop a cocaine habit, drop out of University, move to Florida, and return to London only to spend three and a half years living on the streets?"

"Something like that," Mycroft sighs. "I knew even then that Father was wrong, but at that age I didn't have it in me to defy him."

"You and your obedience," Sherlock mutters. "So very dull!"

"For what it's worth, Mummy agreed with him." Sherlock's eyebrows shoot up as Mycroft continues, "She knew that her odds were grim, but she continued to hope for a miracle, or at least a delay in the inevitable. She participated in as many trials as she could in the hopes that the experimental drugs might allow her the chance to see you finish at Harrow."

"Only missed it by three years," Sherlock snorts.

Mycroft snaps, "If she hadn't been so single-minded, she might not have even seen you _attend_ Harrow! When her cancer recurred, the doctors only gave her a year. She lasted three."

The two men resume their staring contest.

After a long silence, the elder sighs, "Dredging up ancient history is getting us nowhere, baby brother. I can assist you in taking down Moriarty, but only if you allow me to."

"And if I don't?"

"Then Moriarty's operatives will find and kill you, and that will effectively kill me."

Sherlock snorts, "As you can see, I'm not frightened of my own death-"

This time, Mycroft interrupts. "Yes, and you are not concerned about mine either. You've made that quite clear. However, you've proven beyond the shadow of a doubt that you are frightened of Dr. Watson's death. If Moriarty's men discover you, they won't be content to merely kill _you_; they shall carry out his original threat to kill your friends as well."

The younger man says nothing. The thing he hates most is admitting that his brother is right.

Mycroft can see that further discussion would hinder rather than help. "You've had a long day. Perhaps you should get some sleep. Shall I help you to your room?"

The detective spits, "I don't need your help!"

Sherlock clumsily manoeuvres himself off the couch and limps toward the stairs, holding onto the furniture for balance. Mycroft watches with folded arms.

Sherlock grasps the railing and starts up the stairs, beginning with his good leg. He winces as he takes the next step with his weight on his bad leg. As he attempts to shift his weight to his good leg, he loses his balance and tumbles to the steps. Before he can protest, Mycroft is at his side. Mycroft helps Sherlock up, drapes Sherlock's right arm over his shoulders and wraps his own left arm around Sherlock's torso. Without speaking, the brothers coordinate their movements: Sherlock takes a step with his left leg, Mycroft takes a step with his right leg, and Sherlock leans on Mycroft as they drag their other legs up a step. They resemble an uphill three-legged race, but they reach the finish line unscathed.

Still leaning on his brother for support, Sherlock stumbles down the hall to his childhood bedroom. Mycroft gently lowers him to the bed. "I've extra toiletries in the guest bathroom, and I believe some of your pajamas are still here. I shall be in the master bedroom if you need me."

Sherlock notices one of his old science projects on the desk, and a strange expression crosses his face. "Mycroft, I need to ask you something."

The hair on the back of Mycroft's neck stands up. "What?"

"Do you remember when you had to go to that parent-teacher conference for Father?"

Mycroft has no idea what this is about, but he decides to play along. He gazes down his nose at Sherlock and sniffs, "I remember attending _many_ parent-teacher conferences for Father. You always seemed to get into trouble when he was away and Mummy was confined to bed."

"I'm referring to the one with Mrs. Jenkins, after I called her a sadistic twat. He never punished me for that, nor even mentioned it. The only reasonable explanation is that you never told him. Why not?"

Mycroft smirks. "I take it you're wondering why I never reminded you that you owed me a favour?"

"Yes. It's the only time in our lives that I've owed you a favour and you've not tried to cash it in."

"I _did_ tell Father what you called Mrs. Jenkins. We discussed the matter and decided that while we did not approve of your choice of words, we agreed with the sentiment behind them. Father and a few other parents complained about her to the headmaster, and she was removed at the end of the school year."

"_Father_ complained to the headmaster?"

Mycroft nods. "Father believed in firm discipline, but Mrs. Jenkins' methods were a bridge too far, even for him. Sleep well, baby brother."

* * *

_A/N: For those who haven't read the earlier stories, Mummy was first diagnosed with breast cancer when Sherlock and Mycroft were 8 and 15. Three years later, the doctors pronounced her cured. Her cancer returned when they were 12 and 19, and she died shortly before Sherlock's 15__th__ birthday. The Mrs. Jenkins incident is discussed in the 1986 chapters of both stories._


	4. Ego Te Absolvo

**Ego Te Absolvo**

**[I Absolve You]**

Sherlock is only in bed a short time before he gives up on trying to get to sleep. Instead of resting, he decides to spend some time in his Mind Palace.

First, he contemplates taking on Moriarty's men without Mycroft's help.

_Possibility one: I travel the globe taking down the network. I am alone and there are several dozen of them; numerically, the odds are not in my favour. While Moriarty's successor is a pitiful fool, he's still in command of people hired by Moriarty, which means that even if I can dupe their boss, I may not be able to dupe them. Capture by Moriarty's men would involve physical torture, which I can tolerate… and being forced to watch the killings of John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, which I cannot._

_Possibility two: I successfully defeat Moriarty's men, but being legally dead I will have a difficult time returning to Britain and restarting the work… unless Mycroft helps. And I knew I would need his help in this; that's why I returned to this infernal rat-trap in the first place._

_Estimated duration of crusade against Moriarty's men: Without Mycroft's help, two years. With his help, six months._

Sherlock grinds his teeth. Mycroft is unfailingly and infuriatingly right, but can he be trusted? John didn't believe Mycroft when he said he was sorry, but John has a hard time believing most people. Sherlock thinks back to the expression on his brother's face when they first saw each other this evening and runs it through his Database of Mycroft's Expressions.

_I've only seen that expression on three previous occasions._

_The first was 25 December 1985. I sneaked out of the Manor to see the lights at Oxford Street. Father and Mycroft went looking for me, and when they found me, Father was, as always, irritated. Mycroft spoke like he was angry, but his face told me a different story: the slackened eyebrows, the tension in his jaw releasing. He truly had been worried about me._

_The second was 29 October 1999. Mycroft fetched me from Heathrow after my time in Florida. The expression on his face was shocked at first, as if he thought I were a ghost, but his face quickly melted into the same face I saw on Oxford Street. It's impossible to say whether or not he missed me during the years I was gone, but he definitely had been concerned for my safety._

_The third was 17 September 2003. I was at St. Bart's after taking a speedball. Mycroft was there when I awoke, no doubt concerned that while my body had pulled through, my mind might not. Of all the times I've seen Mycroft relieved, this is probably the closest match for tonight's expression._

_Mycroft could have stayed home that Christmas and left me on Oxford Street, or let Father go alone to retrieve me. He could have sent a minion to Heathrow. He was at St. Bart's at the exact moment I awoke and he must have been there since I arrived; it's the only time I've ever seen him in wrinkled clothes._

_The man who did all of that would not have betrayed me under anything less than the most desperate of circumstances. Moreover, he would feel horrendously guilty about it, and tonight he was the closest to disheveled that he's ever been. He truly is remorseful. However, that does not excuse his offence. Mycroft must only be allowed to participate under my terms._

* * *

Mycroft awakens the next morning and phones Anthea to let her know that he won't be at work. If Sherlock really did come back, there is much to be done at home, and if last night actually was a hallucination, a day off might prevent his sanity from unraveling completely. Regardless, the British Government can stumble along without him for one day.

After getting dressed, he silently walks down the hall and knocks on the door of Sherlock's childhood bedroom. He finds the room empty and the bed just as it was the night before. The guest bathroom is empty as well. Mycroft takes a moment to kick himself for believing last night was real. _(Hope is for fools who have nothing better.)_

The diplomat makes his way downstairs to the kitchen. _(Scuff marks on the balustrade are likely another hallucination, or a leftover from our childhood.)_ He decides that since he has the day off, he might as well have a proper breakfast. He rummages through the freezer and finds bacon, then fetches bread out of the breadbox. _(Sod my cholesterol. Sometimes, one simply needs bacon.)_ Starting up the stove, he jumps when he hears a familiar voice.

"Is that on your diet?"

Sherlock leans on the kitchen doorway brandishing a smug grin. For the second time in the last 24 hours, Mycroft thinks he might faint. Leaving the bacon on the counter, he walks over to Sherlock and stands a foot away, studying him.

Sherlock wordlessly punches Mycroft in the face.

Startled, the older man staggers backwards, hand on his jaw. "Why in God's name did you do that?"

"You wanted proof that I'm real, so I gave it to you. A hallucination of me wouldn't punch you, and even if it did, your lower lip would not be bleeding – which it is, incidentally, better put some ice on that. Honestly, Mycroft, every time I attempt to please you, you get cross with me, and then you wonder why I so rarely try to please you!"

Blotting his lip with his handkerchief, Mycroft glares at Sherlock with the surly look he used to give as a teenager. He grumbles that Sherlock should sit while he fixes breakfast.

"Not hungry," Sherlock says as he ambles over to the kitchen table, still favouring one leg and leaning on the countertops.

"Of course," Mycroft snorts. He fixes himself a bacon sandwich and joins Sherlock at the table. "Slid down the balustrade again, I see. Aren't you too old for that?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "You weren't awake to help me, and I'd done everything I could upstairs."

"I'd have awakened if you knocked."

"You? Only if I'd knocked with a battering ram. You were deep into REM sleep, and from observing you since childhood, I knew that attempting to awaken you when you were in such a state was futile. Since I couldn't wake you and my violin is at Baker Street, I went to my Mind Palace to ponder our current situation."

Mycroft takes a bite of his sandwich and looks at Sherlock expectantly.

"I considered all the possible outcomes in my quest to rid the world of Moriarty's men. While I find this thought distasteful, it seems that the mission has the greatest chance of success if I allow you to assist me."

It's all Mycroft can do not to roll his eyes at his brother's egotism. _(Sherlock is more similar to a young Father than either of them would have cared to admit.) _ "Then assist you I shall. What do you require?"

"Not so fast, Mycroft. You have committed a grievous breach of trust, and I am only allowing you and your minions to take part in this quest because the alternative is even more unpleasant. I cannot trust you again unless you obey my instructions to the letter."

"Fine," he gripes.

"One, I do not want a funeral. The media is currently distracted with the salacious photos of the Duchess of Cambridge and my funeral would only bring unwanted attention to my associates. Besides, I can't tolerate all that bloody sentiment!"

Mycroft nods. "As you wish. What would you like carved on your headstone?"

"My name, and nothing more. Give the location to John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson, but no one else. I can't bear the thought of teeming hordes of fans dropping off wilting flowers and horrible poetry and dripping candlewax and tears everywhere as they did at Buckingham Palace after Diana's death."

"Consider it done."

"Two, I want you to pay half the rent at 221B Baker Street so that John can continue living there. My goal is to return home when this is over, and I doubt another tenant would welcome me back."

The older man tilts his head. "This is solely due to your desire to return to your former dwelling and not your friendship with the good doctor or your landlady?"

Sherlock snorts at Mycroft and then continues listing his demands. "Speaking of John, I need you to continue to keep him, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson under surveillance. My death is not going to be easy for them and I want to be sure that they're all right."

"Done." _(I'd have cameras trained on them even if you told me not to.)_

"However – and this is very important, Mycroft, do try to turn your attentions away from that sandwich for a moment – you are not to interfere in John's affairs unless he is in imminent, life-threatening danger. No more kidnappings."

The older man puts his sandwich down, inhales haughtily, and says, "Fine."

"Next, I want you to look after my homeless network."

"Exactly how do you propose I do that? As you well know, they are experts at avoiding CCTV cameras."

"By donating ten thousand pounds to St. Theresa's Shelter. Many of them frequent St. Theresa's during the winter, and it has one of the better soup kitchens in London."

Mycroft wrinkles his nose and furrows his brows. _(Try to remember how relieved you are that he's alive and perhaps that will prevent you from strangling him. Besides, it would be most difficult to strangle anyone with bacon grease on your hands.)_

The older brother sniffs, "And of course you merely ask this out of concern for the network's welfare and not out of a desire to punish me?"

"Of course," Sherlock says with a cheeky smile. "I'll wait while you transfer the funds."

Sighing, the older brother washes his hands and fetches his laptop. Turning the screen so that the younger can see, he makes twenty donations of 500 pounds each from all of his accounts – several small donations are much harder to trace than one large donation. "Satisfied?"

Sherlock says with a smug tilt of his head, "I am overwhelmed by your generosity, dear brother."

"Is that all?

"Hardly," the detective scoffs. "You are not to touch any of my possessions that remain at Baker Street. Molly will dispose of my experiments, but everything else shall remain as it is."

The diplomat cocks an eyebrow. "What if John and Mrs. Hudson want your possessions removed?"

The detective waves his hand dismissively. "They won't. By the way, Molly took my coat to the cleaners yesterday; it should be finished by now. Have someone fetch it for me, would you?"

"So that all of London can recognize you?"

"No, because it's unusually cold for midsummer and I'd like to observe John one more time. Invite him and Mrs. Hudson to my 'grave' in a few days. And I won't be recognized because I won't be seen."

"Very well, but I'm sure you realize that you cannot wear that coat while chasing Moriarty's men. It has rather become your trademark."

Sherlock glowers at Mycroft as only a younger brother can. _(Does he really think I'm this stupid?)_ "Yes, yes, yes. When I depart, you may give John the coat. And then there's the matter of proving I'm not a fraud…"

The older man folds his arms. "I feel that is a task best delegated to John. He has all of your case files and contact information for your former clients. If I provide him with the information my people have accumulated about Moriarty and his aliases, he can solve the puzzle."

The younger man nods. "Yes, John functions better when he has work, and –"

"I'm afraid he's about to be sacked," both Holmeses say in unison.

"Straight after he returns from bereavement leave," Mycroft murmurs. He gives Sherlock a look that says he shall take care of this. The look in Sherlock's eyes says that he had better take care of it.

Still staring intensely, the detective continues, "We must also deal with the kidnapping charges. If you truly are remorseful for what you've done, you shall prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that I did not abduct those children. And you shall provide John with whatever assistance he requires in clearing my name. Consider it your penance."

The diplomat frowns. "I doubt John will welcome my assistance."

"If he wonders about trusting you, give him this," the younger man says, handing Mycroft an envelope. "He will be more likely to forgive you if he thinks that I did."

"But you didn't."

"Forgive you? If by 'forgive', you mean that I have forgotten your indiscretion and wish to bury it and invite you to my flat every weekend to watch rugby, or whatever it is that ordinary brothers do, then no, I have _not_ forgiven you. But do I wish to punish you? When you walked in yesterday, I observed that your hairline had receded another fifteen millimeters since we last spoke, you have two new wrinkles on your forehead and bags under your eyes, and you have put on three pounds – you always eat when you're distressed. Thus, I conclude that I've no need to punish you, for you seem to be doing an admirable job of punishing yourself."

The elder brother grimaces at the comments about his looks. Like Mummy, he's quite vain and can't tolerate the idea of letting one's appearance go.

The younger man continues, "Have I forgotten what you've done? You know that I've never forgotten anything in my life, merely deleted it, and I will never delete anything that pertains in even a minor way to Jim Moriarty. It would be unwise to delete such information, because there is a great deal to be learned from these events. I suspect you have drawn the same conclusion, and you shall not repeat this mistake in the future."

The elder brother gives a stiff nod.

Sherlock continues, "While I understand that most criminals need to be kept away from society for the common good, in a few cases I find it unfair to judge a person's entire life based on one action. Yes, that man is a thief, but what if he stole food because he was hungry? Yes, that man betrayed his brother, but what if he did so to protect his country?"

The detective pauses briefly and adds, "Yes, that man made his best friend suffer, but what if he did so to save his best friend's life?"

There is a long pause as the two brothers stare at each other intensely. The next words need to come from Sherlock, and Mycroft's heart slams against his ribcage as he waits for them.

Sherlock looks Mycroft in the eyes and says, "Jumping off of St. Bart's does not define my life, and giving my life story to Jim Moriarty does not define yours."

If Mycroft Holmes were a lesser man, he might weep for joy.


	5. Ite in Pace?

**Ite in Pace?**

**[Go in Peace?]**

_(Don't let Sherlock see how much this affects you. We have work to do and all this sentiment isn't going to help get it done.) _Clearing his throat, he sniffs, "Has His Majesty any further demands?"

The younger man looks him in the eye and says, "Only one. If my mission fails, tell no one."

"I could never," Mycroft breathes.

Quiet reigns for a few minutes. Mycroft clears the breakfast dishes and makes Sherlock another offer of food, which he politely declines. Sherlock does grudgingly accept Mycroft's offer to help him to the couch; he knows he's got to stay off that twisted ankle for at least one more day. The brothers make their way to the living room in the same way they climbed the stairs the previous night. The elder lowers the younger onto the couch and then settles into a chair of his own.

"There's one thing I've not yet worked out as regards your 'suicide.' While Molly Hooper is a superb pathologist and your homeless network is far more reliable than one would suspect, their assistance does not explain the emergence of the topless photos of the Duchess of Cambridge. Those photographs were the only thing that could distract the media from your story, and the fact that they emerged a mere two days after you jumped cannot be a coincidence."

Sherlock chuckles. "I've long believed that the Duchess' exhibitionist streak is a dangerous disadvantage. The photographs simply gave us final proof."

Mycroft takes a moment to remember the last time he heard those words and then his eyes widen. "Irene?"

"I'm not the only one who can fake their own death," Sherlock says mischievously.

"Tell Irene that while her assistance on this occasion was most useful, I would appreciate it if she found less… revealing ways to help us in the future."

"I don't plan on requiring her assistance in the future," Sherlock huffs. "'Death' has been extraordinarily boring."

* * *

Two days later, a taxi stops at the cemetery and lets out an elderly lady and a short blond man with military bearing. Technically, this isn't a funeral – their friend hadn't wanted one – but they refer to this as his funeral anyway. The soldier's therapist tells him he needs closure, and the lady just can't bear the thought of not saying goodbye properly.

The cemetery is empty, and no one sees the two of them at the headstone. At least, that's what the soldier and the lady think. While the cemetery has been cleared of most visitors, they aren't completely alone. Neither sees the man watching them from behind a large monument. If they had, they might have thought for a moment that he was the man they mourned, and then shaken their heads sadly. The lady would blame it on a trick of the light, the soldier on his PTSD. They both know that some things are just too much to hope for… but a small part of them hopes anyway.

* * *

Twenty-four hours after visiting his "grave", Sherlock huffs as he fidgets in his airline seat. He and Mycroft chose this flight for anonymity rather than comfort. The aircraft is an ancient Hadley Page Jetstream, built in the days when people were still allowed to smoke on planes. The smell lingers and it drives Sherlock mad; his craving for a cigarette is almost unbearable. _(A plane that reeks of tobacco, no cigarettes in sight, and departing from Stansted, the London airport with the lowest collective IQ! At least I'll be prepared for whatever torture Moriarty's men have in mind.)_

Just as Sherlock is about to start digging through the plane's ashtrays looking for spare cigarettes (on an airline like this, the ashtrays may not have been emptied since the 1960s), the first of his assistants walks in and sits down next to him. His assistant, a muscular red-haired bloke, barely looks at Sherlock and pretends to take no notice of him. This is the plan; no one is supposed to know that Sherlock and the redhead are in league. The redhead spreads out a newspaper and Sherlock silently fumes as he stares out the window. A moment later, a thin white square flutters into his lap. The detective blinks in disbelief. The square is a packet containing a 21 mg nicotine patch, with _"More where this came from"_ written on it.

The redhead and the detective trade a brief glance. While the other passengers are preoccupied with their bags, Sherlock opens the packet, rolls up his sleeve and applies the patch to his forearm. Then he leans back in the chair, as close to relaxed as he's been since Baker Street. _(Mycroft would never have chosen this man, and that's why we shall get along swimmingly.)_

* * *

Mycroft does not take his brother to the airport when he begins his journey. He's trying to maintain an air of normalcy, and missing any more work would arouse suspicion. Besides, neither of them is especially sentimental. He goes about his day just as he did when he believed his brother to be dead; glued to his desk and calmly but firmly deflecting any inquiries about his emotional state. Anthea is the only one who notices that the diplomat's eyes are lighter now, and she is wise enough not to say anything. The British government sends Mycroft to Argentina for a week, and when he returns, his coworkers have moved on to the next scandal.

After his return, the elder Holmes sits in front of the fire with a brandy and ponders his next move. As he and Sherlock predicted, John was sacked immediately after returning from bereavement leave. John moved back in to Baker Street, most likely because Mrs. Hudson would never evict him. According to Anthea, John has been spotted at liquor stores far more frequently these days, and he's been caught on CCTV drunk before noon at least twice. _(Idleness does not suit the good doctor. I shall have Anthea look in on him tomorrow, and the following day I can talk some sense into him myself.)_ Mycroft knows that John isn't like Harry; with the appropriate challenge, he'll crawl out of the bottle and begin to carry on again. _(We have the pieces of the puzzle. Now we must assemble it.)_

Swirling his brandy in the glass, Mycroft turns his attentions to Sebastian Moran, reportedly the new head of Moriarty's empire. He knows little about the man other than that he's an Army veteran of Afghanistan and a crack shot. He refuses to contemplate Sherlock's odds of success in his fight against Moran. It's far too early in the game to make any predictions, but he knows that his brother will do everything in his power to rid the world of Moriarty's network, and the people Sherlock chose to assist him have been vetted for both skill and loyalty. _(If anyone could accomplish this task, they could.)_

Then he considers the kidnapping charges against his brother. He knows what to look for here: a person trusted by both the Yard and Moriarty. It will take some time to find such a person, but Mycroft Holmes is a man of infinite patience and tenacity, especially where his baby brother is concerned. When he finds the real kidnapper, he will find redemption for Sherlock.

As he finishes his brandy, Mycroft reminds himself that the only thing more dangerous than too much hope is too little.

* * *

_A/N: Like all post-Reichenbach fanfic, this was inspired by the Conan Doyle story "The Empty House". It occurred to me that while the canon Holmes had Mycroft's help while he was on the run, he hadn't gone to Reichenbach with the intention of faking his death. (Actually dying, yes. Faking it, no.) That means he probably didn't contact Mycroft for assistance until he arrived in Florence a week after his "suicide", thus, there were probably a few days when his brother mourned him. Who knows how Conan Doyle's Mycroft would have reacted to the news of his brother's death, but Mark Gatiss' Mycroft would clearly have a heavy load of guilt to carry. I suspect that when S3 starts we'll find that Mycroft was in on it all along, but it was fun to write a story where he didn't know._

_Thanks for sticking with me, everyone! You're all positively lovely, and I'm so grateful for all the kind reviews, follows, and favorites I've received with each of these stories. Special thanks to my husband, who helped with some of the aviation tidbits in the final chapter._

_If you want to find out what happens next in this universe, read Domestic Enemies. :) _


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